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soleil-timide·:

Florence nodded politely as Augustine began to recount her season. She was glad her friend was having a good season. Perhaps if things were different, if scandal had not befallen Tynthesfield, she would be excited as well. “That’s wonderful. I can only hope for a calmer second season,” Florence commented with a shy smile. “It is certainly overwhelming. There are so many things to keep track of, and so many things happening. I think perhaps that’s what took me most by surprise, just how busy it is.”  Truly, it seemed a never-ending whirlwind of balls, parties, teas, promenades..it was no small wonder as to why this was merely a ‘season’ as opposed to a year-round affair, though the youngest Talbot supposed that even after the season concluded there could still be soirees.

“It is very kind of you to say,” Florence added a moment later. “I hadn’t realized you’d seen them both that evening,” she continued, her brows furrowing for only a moment. It was odd to think that her friend (still friend? once friend?) had socialized with her brothers instead. It was humbling to be reminded that as far as social currency went, she really didn’t have much to offer. If nothing else, her brothers could dance with Augustine, give the other the chance to show how elegant and graceful she was. Florence had little else to offer but a friendly soul. That counted for precious little, she could admit. “I saw you that evening as well. Society suits you, Lady Augustine,” Florence offered with a smile. It truly did. If anyone was perfect, it was the young lady seated with her. “I can only imagine how proud your mother is, to see you dancing,” she continued earnestly. Lady Felton must be proud of her daughter, of Augustine’s accomplishments.

Yes, one’s first season was always hectic. Augustine sent a small, almost secretive smile towards Lady Florence. “Have you received many visits?” she asked, eyes not-so-subtly scattering over a few floral arrangements throughout the room – gifts, no doubt, from possible suitors. Even Augustine had felt overwhelmed at times from the sheer number of men who appeared before her, often using all of her willpower to keep from losing any of her composure when, instead of granting her a moment of peace, her mother bid in yet another young man to listen to her play the pianoforte, to take a turn about the garden, to shoot unabashed leers at her waist. “I have found that I was able to correctly prepare myself this time, knowing just how busy it would be. With luck, you shall find the same in the new year.”

For a moment, Augustine was whisked away by memories of her dances in the arms of Lord Alastair; his swift step, his warm hands, their conversations. She’d let her composure slip, then, and rather than be horrified by it, Lord Alastair had seemed to warm to her, instead. “Such nights are made for talking and dancing with men, are they not?” she simply remarked.

At the compliment, Augustine smiled. She dipped her her, tilted her jaw, folded her gloves – the picture of grace, the image of humility. “You flatter me,” she said, voice sweet as syrup. “Truthfully, I was a mess by the night’s end, and my feet are still blistered. My mother is, as always, highly concerned that I dance well, and with the correct men. Unfortunately, I did not take a turn with His Royal Highness, Prince Alexander John.” Not as Lady Dinah had, nor as Lady Florence had, either – if not a comment upon her beauty, then one upon the Prince’s friendship with Lord Alastair. Augustine’s smile turned a little more playful. “Did he dance well?”

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Gown c. 1904

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soleil-timide·:

Is it the least? Florence caught herself wondering. Is this kindness? It was a most startling thought, and highly uncharitable especially given that here Augustine was after such a long silence. Augustine apologised, most properly, for the quiet. And I could hardly ask you to call me friend, if I were so easily scared off, echoed in her mind, in Dinah’s voice. What would Dinah say about this development? She’d granted friendship without question, without history. Florence would have to ask at her first opportunity. “Yes,” Florence agreed calmly as she lead the way to their chairs. “Being snubbed has been quite an experience,” she continued. It was terribly blunt, but there was no good way to talk around it. “Please, let’s sit, shall we? And let’s not have such talk, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” Florence added, gesturing to the table so that they could sit.

“You simply must tell me everything that’s gone on. Have you been enjoying the season, the events? Have any suitors caught your eye?” All very correct questions. Questions of books and hobbies felt ill-placed with Augustine. It had been such a long time since they’d had so much as a letter between them.

Though Lady Florence agreed, Augustine did not yet feel relieved of the burden of wrongdoing. Perhaps the formality between them was the problem. And yet, rather than encourage Augustine to do away with the formal leanings of her education, fearing that she was still seen as a traitor to their friendship made her cling only harder to them, the same way one would a crutch.

Following Lady Florence to the seating, Augustine swept her skirts underneath her and sat down. At least she was not to beg, and at least her girlhood friend offered the chance of other topics – even if one is something she would rather delay. She did not want Lady Florence to assume she had only come as a result of her interest in Lord Alastair.

“The season has been phenomenal, so far. I know it is only my second, but it already feels better than my first. Calmer, if nothing else. I was absolutely exhausted this time last year. How has it been for you?” Gently, she began to remove her gloves, undoing the finicky buttons one by one and then tugging at each finger. “I saw you at the Queen Charlotte Ball – you looked absolutely stunning. I even made sure to mention so to both of your brothers.”

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alastair-talbot·:

∞

“Duke Felton,” he said, paying his respects. At least as much as he could give, because he was a little nervous. Nervous, not intimidated. How are you supposed to ask someone to marry you when you’re disliked in almost every way - he was going to find that out in the middle of a lion’s den. He didn’t know a lot of things but he knew one thing: he wanted his permission. But he also didn’t want to disgrace her by marrying her. She was still young and of high standing, and without their permission she would be finished as quickly as he was.

The atmosphere in the study was unbearable and he just stood there, arms folded neatly behind his back. But his voice, yes, it was firmer, he stood his ground. “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” he said genuinely, watching the duke from head to toe, wondering how she had become so lively and friendly.

“I ask only for her,” he said again, already hinting at what he had been thinking about for a very long time, “I don’t want your money.” He would have needed it, yes, but not if it put her in danger. It would have secured him for a while, but not forever, so why insist. He had thought for a long time before, imagining all possible scenarios but he wasn’t down yet, there were still chances. “Duke Felton,” he took a deep breath, “I do not want her to be scorned because I insist on marrying her without your permission. I refuse her dowry if you give us your permission. She should and must retain her social and moral standing.”

Well, that didn’t take long. It appeared Lord Alastair Talbot wasn’t the type to beat around the bush. Usually, being a man who decidedly liked straightforwardness, the Duke would have held such abruptness in good esteem. Yet coming from a man who he did not view as his equal – nor did he have any reason to – he found himself irked instead. Duke Felton raised his chin, regarding Lord Alastair down his nose. At least the man had the sense to ask, though the question itself was impertinent.

An impertinence which did not disappear, as the man went on. Unable to help himself, the Duke let out a barked scoff of laughter, his ruddy cheeks flapping for a moment. “Don’t want my money,” he repeated, with more than a touch of disbelief. So the Talbot name was only asking for his sole daughter for her status, then? “Well, I am glad you cleared that up. Here I was imagining my daughter to have taken up with a beggar, but no, no, it would appear instead she has taken a shine to a penniless fool.” With his broad fingers twitching at his sides, Duke John Felton paced for a moment, his long-turned-white moustache bristling with indignation. Yes, Augustine had always had a streak, and he quite awfully regretted not having had it torn out of her, long ago.

His opinion of the Talbots had not always been so dim, of course. Way back, decades ago, when he and Earl of St. Maur and the Baron were young, they had enjoyed their summers together. Drinking. Hunting. Playing cards. Leaving the ladies, the nannies, and the squealing babes behind. They’d trouped about the South West like the strapping young men they’d been. Had shared laughter, discussion, debate. Yes, there was a time they had been friends! But the Baron had always had a streak to him that Duke Felton disliked. A certain tendency to drink too much. An inability to put his cards down, long past the point the game had been an entertaining one. Even a cruelty when hunting, aiming not to kill, but to make an animal suffer.

Maybe years ago, maybe in the summer of his youth, the Duke might have promised one of his children to the Talbots. But even then it would not have been his daughter. He would not let his Augustine marry down.

And now, now, to carry the name Talbot was not only a descent in rank. It was more than that. It was a drop into hardship. It was a drop into scandal. It was a drop into mediocrity. And the Duke would not let his dear girl suffer mediocrity.

He turned to his drinks cabinet, and poured himself a little more than just a finger of whisky. Lord Alastair still spoke, and as the Duke peered into the amber pool of his glass, he saw the reflection of his twisted lips. “Oh, I dare say she should,” he retorted, and turned on the spot to face the young man again. Young, for what was thirty years old? Nothing, compared to his fifty-five years. Nothing at all. “And what would becoming Lady Augustine Talbot do to her social standing? What, do you suppose, would become of her morality, with your father as her father-in-law?” Asking this, the Duke pointed his index finger out from beyond the body of his tumbler, clearly accusatory.

He huffed, something like a sharp, snorting sigh, and walked back towards his desk. “Lord Alastair,” he addressed. “Please understand I have nothing against you personally. I remember when you were still a lad, about yea tall.” With his free hand, he gestured to the top of his thigh, looking down as if he could still see that young lad, always too serious, always protective of his younger siblings. He’d never met a boy less inclined to smiling and playing. “But my daughter,” at this, his hand, which had been parallel to the floor, curled as if around a small head. Fond. Tender. “She cannot become tainted by your name.”

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ira-vaisman·:

How talkative. He was on the verge of yawning.

He yawned. (No hand covering his mouth.) Nodded. Hummed. “Yeah, we sure love those vibrations.” Rubbing the palm of his hand against his nose to alleviate an itch, he was looking around the room now. “Oh, you should try that one.” He motioned towards the guy he’d gotten to know tonight as Bimblebutt. “He’ll make you quiver for good.” 

He was about to lean back into the actual wall because he really was getting tired, it wasn’t just boredom, when Doris Longwing’s words surprised him so much, that he lost balance and flailed into the wall – it was farther away than he’d anticipated. Blink. Blink. Blink. Then he burst out laughing. Like proper, bellowing, doubling-over laughter. “Moony, moony, give me your great aunt’s family heirloom, I want to marry her right now.” 

Urgh. Without the need to hide it, Augustine grimaced behind her mask at the view she got of Vaisman’s throat. Mannerless. Impolite. Piggish. And also entirely without taste. Augustine cast her eyes over towards the man he had pointed out, who had such an effete costume it took her a moment to parse where on earth the ‘he’ Vaisman had mentioned was lurking. She was ninety-nine percent sure it was not Lord Alastair under that mask, so she shrugged, unimpressed.

“I’ll leave him to you, thank you,” she said.

‘Moony,’ for his worth, did seem to try and catch Vaisman as he toppled more like humpty dumpty than the wall he was supposed to be, shoving a half-bandaged hand into the man’s upper back before he collided too roughly with the actual wall. Then he seemed to laugh too (though Augustine couldn’t tell behind his mask and his sheet.), and knocked the back of his wrist against Vaisman’s shoulder. Augustine watched the duo with, annoyingly, some mirth.

“Did that add the points, then?” she asked, trying to keep her tone as dry and unimpressed as possible, but unfortunately unable to hide the sound of the smile behind her mask.

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The Discussion

DATE: 13th of June PLACE: Felton Residence, Pimlico, London STATUS: Closed @alastair-talbot

There was tension in the study that early afternoon. Usually, the Duke did not care for tension, certainly not in the place in which he handled his finances and other work, but today he had brought it himself. Before him stood Lord Alastair Talbot, a man he’d known since he was naught but a babe still in skirts. A man whose last name he and his family had done their best to distance themselves from since the moment the scandal broke in the Christmastime. A man who, he learned via his distraught wife several days earlier, had solidified his designs upon their daughter.

Augustine was a good girl, mostly. Smart, pretty, accomplished – the type of daughter any Duke would be glad to have. But she had always had a streak within her. In her youth it had revealed itself in unladylike play and obsessions; too much running about, and too long spent staring at the mounted heads of hunting trophies. In her adolescence it had been more subtle; a competitiveness which was just a tad too intense, and an unhealthily close friendship or two. In adulthood, John Felton had been relieved to see that his daughter kept her eccentricities secret but for the habit of smoking. Still, he and his wife had kept a close eye on her, just as they did their son, and accompanying their eyes were firm, guiding hands. It would appear, however, that his wife’s grip had slipped for a moment. Augustine’s streak had sprinted her right into the arms of a potential scandal.

“Well, Lord Alastair,” the Duke said, his rasping, deep voice not cutting through the tension but adding to it, “I suppose I had best hear your argument.”

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alastair-talbot·:

∞

The words bubbled out of him faster than he would have liked, because he was confused for a moment. If it sounded like he wasn’t including her parents, then he had misspoken. “I will ask their permission. That is what I have to do,” he said sternly, as a sign of respect. He couldn’t and wouldn’t just run off and get married, because that would bring shame on them both. No, and it was really much more exciting to convince her father and know he was on his side, even though her mother was against him and them as a pair but had to let them be anyway because Duke Felton wanted it that way. Satisfaction.

She wanted it and he had to. He kept his promises, he didn’t give his word in vain. And so he was glad that she accepted him: “Yes, you have,” he replied. She had already taken him into her heart, a feeling that Alastair had not yet reached and found a place for. There were many things Alastair couldn’t cope with, and one of them was intimacy. It meant a lot to him, so much so that he needed time to actually open up to it. It wasn’t particularly scary, but it was unfamiliar. Distance was a word he valued more than intimacy, and once he had dropped it, only to return to the realisation that he was an idiot. He didn’t want it a second time. But maybe, just maybe, this time it was different. He wanted it to be different.

He didn’t know what it was, he didn’t know why she attracted him. He didn’t know what he was feeling, something he wanted to stop from continuing to happen. If he felt love, he wanted to know. If it was something else, he wanted to know.

And when Augustine revealed herself, so did Alastair. He had taken off the mask of the demigod Heracles, the mask that pretended to be strong, agile and protective. So he also presented himself naked, without the strength he so desperately tried to maintain. He had the chance and he took it. His hand wandered gently and playfully from her fingers to the back of her hand, to her arm whose fabric released so much warmth, to her elbow, to her shoulder, to the tip of her chin, which he gently turned upwards. The pale, soft mouth that had earlier given a hearty, beautiful laugh and the black-rimmed eyes that watched him excitedly. His eyes were fixed on hers as he moved closer. And something he didn’t dare do before, this time it was easy. Because the timing was right. He felt the warmth emanating from her as his lips pressed gently against hers for the first time. His hand moving from her chin to the nape of her neck and he lightly placed the other on her waist to pull her closer. And it felt good. It didn’t matter that she was young, it didn’t matter that her family didn’t want him with her but it didn’t matter who he was because it felt right. It was a warmth and intimacy that, on the whole, he had always wanted. It was what he was getting in that moment. She was nervous, he could feel her breathing on his face and so he slowly eased off her, off her waist, not yet off her neck. With a slight smile, he said quietly, “I promise.” And he did, for he was sure.

She had his promise. Not only to ask her parents for permission, but a promise that no matter whether they agreed or not she could be his. Augustine did not take that lightly. In fact, she felt its weight physically, like a band on her finger, like a cord around her waist. It tugged at the crown of her head, and pulled it back, back, until her throat was stretched, and to balance herself she simply had to lean against him. And Alastair, with his mask removed, met her.

His fingers mapped a line from her hand all the way along her arm and up to her chin, each spot touched left tingling, buzzing. Under her hands, his chest was firm in the way of a hero described in a book, solid and trunk-like, and warm underneath the simple cotton of his costume. His eyes fixed upon hers, and when she saw them flick to her lips she couldn’t help but smile. Yes, the arsenal with which she had been equipped by her teachers had worked. And then, just like that, he was kissing her.

It was not her first kiss, but it was her first with a man, and that counted for more than just something. It was her first with him, and that counted for a lot. Yes, his lips were nice, and gentle, and chaste, but more interesting to her was the large hand upon her neck, and the other which pulled her closer. It made her pant against him, hotter and more wanting than she had expected, and though her heart did not tell her she had made the right decision, nor did her brain, her body certainly gave its approval.

It was over after ten seconds, and Augustine felt both disappointed at its end, and relieved that she was no longer teased by it. She sighed, and felt her own breath bounce off Alastair’s face and over her lips. ‘I promise,’ he said, very romantically, and Augustine smiled again with too many teeth.

“Good,” she replied.

It took a moment to reaffix her mask to her flushed face, and longer than that to make her legless way to the spot from which he – her promised – wished to see the fireworks, but each moment spent leaning a little too much upon his arm was a moment she enjoyed, and a moment in which she could compose herself. By the time the first fireworks flew, she was calm again. Calm, but very happy, indeed.

END.

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alastair-talbot·:

∞

My goodness, it was official now, wasn’t it. Her hands traced the shape of his biceps and he was glad of her words, his heart didn’t leap, he was just glad. “I am unsure they will realise their mistake,” he said quietly, “but maybe we can convince them to leave us alone.” Quite a romantic phrase for Alastair to say so naturally. Wanting her, and alone without her family looking over her shoulder. Her mother would never approve, and it almost felt like a forbidden love story in a novel. Hopefully it was going to have a good ending. But he truly believed that he wanted her and that he would grow into her, and he was glad that she stood by him despite her family, a quality he thought worthy.

He followed her movements and couldn’t help but feel amused. Her hand in his, then her finger on his wrist. At her young age, she already knew how to get men on her side, but it wasn’t just her looks, it was also her words that she could utter so carefully, yet quickly. “Then we have nothing to fear,” he said with a slight smile on his face as he gently took her fingers in his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the translucent silk of the glove of her knuckles.

Augustine was fond of him too, desperately fond and yes, that gave him the joy that had long been sought. “Then I hope you have room in your heart only for me.”

“Will you not at all ask them for permission?” Augustine asked, surprised. She thought, maybe, with some convincing, at least her father would agree. And if her father agreed, her mother would follow suit, happily or not. She was a good wife, in that way: obedient. Without agreement, however…without a blessing. Well, the Talbot name may well add another scandal to its list. And no dowry would accompany Augustine into her new life. None at all.

It was a big decision. A very, very big decision. Her whole life, Augustine had been groomed to be the perfect wife; to receive and accept only the perfect proposition from the perfect candidate for a perfect marriage. It was for that goal she was born. It was for that goal she was educated. It was for that goal she lived. Now, after nineteen years, it was finally here: her moment. The moment. And she knew that in saying yes she would be failing miserably in the eyes of her family. Nay, the eyes of the world.

Her heart beat very, very fast. She realised, suddenly, that she was afraid. Lord Alastair’s lips were warm and firm against her knuckles. He felt a whisper of his breath. Oh, Lord, he was a man. A man of blood and flesh, real, complex, living. Her heart thundered. She feared so much.

Augustine took three breaths, hoping her heart would leap forward and make the decision for her. It did not. She had to make it alone. “That I do,” she finally said. “And do I have your promise, in return for the space given to you?”

Damn Her Grace’s rules. Augustine refused to be faceless. With her free hand she reached up and unhooked the mask from her ears, revealing herself. Aside from the black which ringed her eyes, reaching up to her brows, her face was now bare. Lord Alastair could look upon her and see the wideness of her eyes, the part of her bloodless lips, the flush of her cheeks. He hoped, to all that she could muster belief in, that he would kiss her. That he would kiss her, and that she would respond, and know her decision was right.

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alastair-talbot·:

∞

Whether it was the beauty of the garden, the romance, the special evening itself, the exciting topic, the woman at his side, but he certainly felt welcome and was about to give his heart away again, hopefully for the good this time.

Since it was also no surprise and no secret that she was she and he was he, there was no reason to keep it up. What was the point either? Enough games played. Her finger and the fabric of her glove rubbed over his elbow, he felt how she leaned into him, and he knew what he wanted to say but not yet how, so his mouth opened and closed again and opened again, but no voice was coming out. Alastair wasn’t someone who could put his affection for someone else into words, certainly not so easily or just like that. But he cleared his throat to say what he wanted to say.

“There is no need for us to continue to identify ourselves in secret, because we have both figured it out. Lady Augustine,” he paused in movement, “I hope you will not take offense at these words,” he began softly, his uncertainty resonating subliminally in the serious words, and his face for once not showing its usual cold and straightforward expression, “I have grown fond of you. I had formed an opinion of your family, truly not a good one, since they parted but you have proved me wrong. And for that I have to thank you.” He put his hand on hers and looked at her, the face still covered by the mask. A perfect time to take it off. “If I may remark, I hope that will not change in the future.” Though it was not love, it was not impossible.

For a moment they walked slowly in silence, not so much travelling but meandering, each step accompanied by the whisper of fabric, and the sound of their breathing. Augustine was content. She was successful. She was proud. And thus, when Lord Alastair cleared his throat, she turned her face towards him expectantly, and was not offended at all.

It was against the Duchess of Norfolk’s rules to remove a mask, but not against correctly guessing the mask-wearer. Behind her own, Augustine smiled, silently thrilled that he knew, that she knew, and that the both of them knew that each other knew. Her fingers trailed upwards to the bulk of a bicep, now.

‘I have grown fond of you,’ Oh! What perfect words! What stunning, brilliant words! Unafraid of being overly toothy, Augustine beamed, not hiding the happy, yes, the wonderfully happy hitch of her breath. She had him, she had him. She had his attention, she had his affection, she had his hand upon hers.

“I cannot blame you for the opinion you have formed of my family,” she said breathlessly. “They have acted unkindly towards you and your own, focused on preserving their reputation rather than restoring that of good people – people they once considered friends. I can only do my best to encourage them to see the error of their ways. Particularly as I am fond of you, too. Quite desperately so, in fact.” As if he hadn’t already worked that out. As if she hadn’t made that clear from the outset.

Augustine slipped her hand from Lord Alastair’s arm, and into his hand proper, feeling through that flimsy gauze the breadth, the warmth, and the roughness of his palm. A strong palm. A firm palm. A palm that could make her tremble – and tremble she almost did, so very excited in that moment she was sure it must have come off of her in waves. “As to the future, I can only say I look forward to it,” she said, the long fingers of her middle and ring finger slipping onto the inside of his wrist, where skin was thinner and more sensitive.

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ira-vaisman·:

“Panthers? Leopards? Same animal, differently coloured. Doris Longwings? Come in red and blue. You can pretend you’re blue. But that doesn’t mean you don’t also exist in red.”

He grinned. “So shallow, hm? Naught but a wall? Is a wall not what holds your house together, your furniture up, your bedroom secure? Is a wall not what you wish to hide behind when you feel rejected and ugly, the wall protecting you? Is a wall not solely shattered by an earthquake, a force of nature? Is that not what you want in a man?” 

He hummed, tilting his head to the side. “A romantic, too? Multicoloured, shallow and yet romantic?” The comment about the eight out of ten had him laugh. She might’ve acted blasé about it, but she at least seemed to remember it. “Are you not curious to know why it wasn’t a ten out of ten?” 

There were a multitude of ways in which to interpret Vaisman’s cryptic words. From matters of sexuality and gender, through to behavioural and even class differences. In fact, the longer Augustine let them hang in the air, the more she came to appreciate them (in an abstract way, mind. Whatever their meaning, she knew it was to undermine her, to perhaps even insult her, and she would rather die than actually appreciate anything that came from Vaisman’s mouth).

“Hmm,” she hummed eventually, doing her best to give off an air of indifference and disinterest, as if it didn’t peak her interest that Vaisman might – might – have caught onto her resurfaced memories before she had even had time to fully materialise them.

“Walls are very useful, but that does not make them interesting, just as water is good to slake thirst but is hardly what one should serve to an esteemed guest,” Augustine shrugged. “As for what I want in a man…” Behind her mask, Augustine wished to smirk, but her lips were too soft, too even, too fond. “Security isn’t everything. Sometimes you need to find a challenge. An earthquake.” The older brother of a childhood friend, turned into a social pariah.

She ignored the comment about being a romantic. In her family, to be called a romantic was an insult. Far better to be practical, to be successful, to be perfect, than to entertain silly, romantic fantasies. Yet as to Vaisman’s question…

“Let me guess, a point deducted for each nipple not visible,” she said dryly – which was not what she was meant to say. She was meant to say ‘no’, and then walk away, preserving her dignity. But the truth was she did want to know. She was curious. Anything less than full marks always made her itchy, made her uncomfortable. If there was a way to improve, Augustine had to know it.

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alastair-talbot·:

∞

Always. Already spoken, he noticed how his words betrayed him. He knew and now she knew as much as she knew who he was. Enough who, enough knew, he was looking forward to spending time with her this time, just the two of them. My goodness, was there another surprise waiting? He was excited, most of all. And his smile grew into a wide one, his dimple showing as her hand rested on his arm. It felt good, natural even. Surprise upon surprise, he led them both into the garden, he had her that night.

“I will protect you with all my strength from any fairy that crosses our path in the gardens,” he said, trying to make a joke, sounding like a fool. He had a sense of humour, even if it did take a time-out now and then, and tried to cover it up with a straight face. Just pretend. Whatever.

“But I hope you like fireworks?” He tilted his head in her direction, “There is a great place in the gardens to admire it. But there is still some time, so how about we take a closer look at the gardens before the fireworks?” Ah, too many words. Walk through the gardens, stop, admire the fireworks, have a nice intimate moment and go back inside. Men.

Augustine laughed, soft and small and short. “Oh, good,” she said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The gardens were cool, the night air free of the sticky heat that London was fond of. It washed over her exposed skin as Lord Alastair guided them out, down, and onto one of the paths around the garden. She let out a little huff of satisfaction.

“I’m fond of them, as long as there aren’t too many,” Augustine said of fireworks. “After a while, a bang is a bang, a flash is a flash. They can be a little repetitive. Everything in moderation.” Her fingers rubbed gently over the crook of Lord Alastair’s elbow, the netting of her gloves doing little to keep the feeling of his warm skin from her reach. Oh, he was warm, and she was sure that if she shifted her fingers just so, and squeezed, she would feel how strong he is, also. “So the gardens sound excellent, dear Heracles,” she finished, leaning into him a fraction more. “Take me where you will.”

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ira-vaisman·:

“Nah, I doubt it,” Ira grinned. “You know what polymorphism is?” 

“Oh, and wouldn’t he appreciate it. Will you announce it? Hey, darling, see what I was gifted from someone so much more handsome and so much more interesting than you, but I shall tickle you with it. What a lucky fellow. Or, no, knowing you, you will pretend you gathered it all by yourself, with wit and beauty, and then present it to him like a great sacrifice, an honour to receive your affections. Kind of sad, isn’t it? Stealing the idea? Going by the book?” 

“Hmm,” Augustine hummed, a clear indication that she wasn’t sure. “Something to do with multiples and appearances, I suppose?” she asked, a clear indication she was educated.

“Now how would I know to call you handsome when you are masked? And how would I know you were interesting when you are dressed as naught but a wall?” Augustine shrugged, as if the questions were unanswerable – the greatest philosophical conundrums of their lifetime. Of course, the only man of whose trousers she would be interested in fiddling was Lord Alastair, and Augustine was of the opinion he was both far more handsome and interesting than Vaisman, of all people. Thus, the answers did not matter to her.

But then- “Knowing me?” Augustine’s heart galloped, much like the dancers upon the ballroom floor. He couldn’t, could he? She was safe, wasn’t she? “Honestly, if you knew me, you would know that I’m far more likely to hoard the blossom myself than to give it to any man. I’d press it in a book, and when I was doubting myself and my allure I would take it out and stare at it, and remember the night a brick wall and a ghost rated me an ‘eight out of ten.’”

[perfcct]

alastair-talbot·:

∞

Despite, because. Now, her view was less gloomy, more positive, motivating, inspiring! He hadn’t even thought of it that way. Yes, it was safe to say that he liked her version better, it was almost perfect. Just one that gave him scope for discussion. There was something incredibly fascinating, captivating about her and there were always surprises. No wonder, then, that he was drawn to her. There was no mistake any more, all doubts had been removed and her perfect appearance was just not quite perfect. Perfection in another definition. He smiled and the wine glass continued to circulate in his hand as he tilted his head in her direction. “It seems you always find the right words to say.”

Even her laugh was just perfect and he would have loved to take off her mask just to see it. Well, for this evening he was denied, but not forever.

“Oh?” he murmured, hesitating for a moment, not because he didn’t want to tell her, but simply because he was surprised for a moment. After all, it was a ball with no identity of its own, it should not be revealed under any circumstances, and yet she asked. There were two possibilities, and he could guess which it was. Was it out of curiosity? Was it to be sure it was him and no one else? Him she was so fond of seeking out, and him who was now beginning to appreciate her company. He whom she so desperately wanted to put a ring on her finger. “A,” he said as his eyes rested on hers. He wasn’t asking anything of her, he knew that by now. And of course she would know it now. “Shall we?” he asked gently, giving her the go ahead to step out into the garden.

Always. So she had been recognised too, had she? Augustine hummed, tilting her head in a coy manner. Her cigarette burned out, and with a soft huff she held an empty glass up to tap out the last embers and ash. They fizzled in the dregs. “That’s quite the compliment,” she said, discarding the glass on the nearest surface and very much readying herself for an evening stroll about the gardens. She already knew, really. She supposed she just wanted confirmation.

Confirmation came, and with it another hidden smile. Lord Alastair moved to let her walk first, but instead Augustine very purposefully chose to slip a hand into the crook of his elbow. Her fine, gauzy gloves allowed her, for the first time, the tiniest touch of skin to skin. It sent a thrill all the way from her palm to the tip of her head, with each little hair along the way standing up in salute. She had him. She really had him.

“Let’s,” she agreed. “I trust strong Heracles to be my chaperone for this treacherous journey.”

[perfcct]

ira-vaisman·:

“Oh, yes, absolutely. But smart women know not to fall for such tricks,” Ira replied without missing a beat, leaning back into his hip and cane. “Lucky for me, I enjoy women with too little wit, too little pride and a sense of foolish romance. The type that ends when the morning dawns.” 

He gave Deepak a look and a nod. “Aren’t I right?” Then looked back to her. “Now for men, it’s the other way round. But I wouldn’t wish to shock you. Stamina or not, you do seem awfully innocent.” Not at first sight, though. Her Doris Longwing dress made her look like a seductress. But she had given herself too easily. Or at least given away what type of nature she was of.

Ah, so women entirely unlike her, Augustine thought to herself with no small amount of pride. “Well then, I am very happy to announce that I shall be disappointing you,” she said, but she stroked a finger over the wildflower as she did. It remained settled firmly in her dress, a sole spot of eye-catching colour in a sea of black.

The ghost, at Vaisman’s side, nodded when nodded to. It was frighteningly silent and blank, a stark contrast to the chatty wall. Augustine only tore her eyes from its eerily blank face when Vaisman spoke so candidly and so openly about criminal leanings that at first she reckoned she must have misheard, or misunderstood. She thus missed the tilt of its head which denoted the rolling of eyes.

Did he truly just admit to enjoying men (men with great wit, too much pride, and no sense of romance, for that matter,)? She was not shocked to hear it, though Augustine would admit to herself her understanding of such men was that they were usually far more colourful than Vaisman, in mannerisms if not in speech. What did shock her was his bravery to admit, or allude to it in public. Mask or no.

“You would be surprised,” was all she said, cryptic and meaningless, as she stuck her quellazaire back into the slot of her mouth. A couple of indistinct memories tugged at her. She drowned them in smoke.

“Thank you for the flower,” she said in a plume. “I shall be sure to remember the wall when I tuck it in the trou of some man luckier than you.” They were bold words, and ones she did not plan on following through with at all. And not only because such an action would make her turn beet red – many of the men attending were trouserless.

[perfcct]

alastair-talbot·:

∞

He chuckled. Without consciously preparing for a Heracles costume, he prepared a strong identity: “Despite his heritage and the twelve dangerous labours, he rose to be a hero and is known as a demigod. Isn’t that fascinating?” Another circle, his look into her eyes and an automatic movement of the glass to his lips. And there it was, a sip of wine. It tasted bitter, much like the feeling he’d been experiencing all evening. “This costume is just an approximation, but I must answer ‘no’ to your question,” though it was a bit ironic that he came as Heracles. It was only a matter of time before he took on those 12 dangerous tasks, or maybe he was already in the middle of them.

His chuckle ended in a broader smile. An identity that revealed more of ourselves. There was no more confusion. The probability that it was her was much higher than any last doubt that it couldn’t be her, the smell of herbal cigarettes - clove cigarettes - she was the only one with that smell, her dress, her fair skin and golden hair and of course her choice of words. “My goodness, I am afraid you have. Tonight I have been enchanted by a fairy.” Alastair was a man, but he was also a gentleman, and he acknowledged the ridiculously tiny wand in her hand, which seemed like a desperate alibi for the fact that she had not come solely to reveal herself.

“Well, my little fairy, will you let me have your company in the gardens?” The bitterness turned into sweetness.

“Despite?” Augustine echoed, a look of genuine surprise behind her mask. Oh, this must be Lord Alastair. If not for his stature, his voice, and those lips, then for what spilled from them. He did seem to have a way of drawing things out of her. “I would say Heracles is a hero because of his heritage and the twelve tasks, not to mention his feats following them. If he were not continuously tortured by the Gods in their petty games, he would not have even been conceived, let alone become the legendary figure he is today.” She twirled her quellazaire through as she spoke, clove and tobacco smoke curling in blue from its tip. A couple of sweet liquor mixes had already loosened her mannerisms, and coupled with the anonymity granted by costume, Augustine felt freed from her usually stuffy, perfect persona.

I am afraid you have. Augustine let out a laugh, the type that was not as quiet nor as musical as her teachers and mother would want. No, it was uncontrolled. True. For the first time that night, she wished her mask did not hide her lower face. She wished for Lord Alastair to see how he had made her smile, not only hear it. She gave a little waggle of her smoking wand.

“Hm,” she hummed, as if truly considering his request. She cocked her head to one side. “You may, if at first you grant me the first letter of your true name.” Better, after all, to be safe, and not sorry. Augustine had no desire to genuinely entertain the affections of anyone who was not him. Accepting a flower from a man was one thing, accompanying him out into the night air, away from the thrum of the party, was another.

[perfcct]

ira-vaisman·:

“You’re not going to defend yourself?” Ira asked because even if half of her face was covered and he could hardly see clearly past his hand anymore, there was no doubt that she thought it too low of a rating. “Go on. We know that you want to.”

“Ah,” he nodded, solemnly. “You need the stamina.” Pressing his lips together to avoid laughing from his own joke, he listened. A slight towards him, most likely, but he wasn’t deterred. “That means this will be safe in your guardianship.” At ‘this’, he had procured from his one pocket one of the blue wallflowers that decorated his hair. “Unless the flies and pests come solely to admire how nice the blue makes your eyes shine.” 

Augustine was a sprinter; stamina was always second to speed. Yet she had a feeling there was some hidden innuendo in Vaisman’s statement that she couldn’t grasp. What she could grasp was the flower he extended. Oh, that was- well, it was hilarious. If only he knew who he was trying to woo with a plucked blossom! Augustine couldn’t help but laugh as she accepted it, both for the ridiculousness of the gesture and the cruel humour of knowing that, under any other circumstance, Vaisman would rather gift her a turd.

“Does that often work to seduce women?” she asked as she tucked the flower into the neckline of her dress, its warm, already slightly floppy stem bending as she pressed it in the space between her breast and her shift. The petals tickled her skin.

[perfcct]

alastair-talbot·:

∞ 

Alastair had smelled something. Herbs, smoke. Someone was smoking and moving away quickly. He roamed the room and started walking until he got the scent to follow. Medicinal, clove cigarettes, a familiar smell. Could it be?

As he walked on, he approached a young lady in a … risqué dress. Tight-fitting, figure-hugging, with generous cleavage, it couldn’t be. It was scandalous, it was everything the mother would disapprove of, and yet that seemed to be the reason. Was it really her? No, it couldn’t be.

He turned to her, her face hidden behind the mask, a cigarette butt in her hand, his hand reaching his mask, “Heracles or leaning, at least,” he said quietly. There was no way he could come naked or half-naked. His wine glass was still in his hand, not yet taken a sip, it circled nervously in his hand. “If I may say so, my lady, a daring costume.”

Heracles! “Were none of the Bard’s heroes strong enough for your liking, oh demigod Heracles?” Augustine asked with clear amusement. Her black-ringed eyes took clear stock of the man, from the top of his mask all the way down to his sandal-clad feet. There was no lion’s skin thrown over him, no exposed chest, no oiled flesh on display, but he did seem a strong enough fellow. His bare legs and arms had a sturdy look about them. Yes, he was clearly a man who took health seriously.

If Augustine felt at all guilty about her eyeing, such a feeling vanished the moment her own costume was commented upon. As her own costume was little more than a revealing dress and a good figure, any comment upon it was therefore a comment upon her body, and an acknowledgement of having looked at it. What’s more, the voice with which the comment was made sounded familiar. Augustine had not the change to recognise it in speaking such rare words as the name Heracles, but ‘lady’, that was a common word indeed.

Augustine’s eyes snapped up to the mask. He was about Lord Alastair’s height, that was certain. And he had a voice like his, too. But what of his eyes? Blue?

She smiled behind her mask. “This is the one night a year in which we can hide our identities without facing questioning for it, and in doing so often reveal more of ourselves as a result. I have taken that quite literally.”